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To Live and Die In Dixie

To Live and Die In Dixie

From her time on the Atlanta police force, Callahan Garrity, house cleaner and private investigator extraordinaire, has excelled at mopping up messes -- of all kinds. But she has no idea what she's getting into when she agrees to work for infamous antiques dealer Elliot Littlefield.

The first day on the job she and her crew discover the bloodied body of a young woman in a bedroom -- and are soon on the trail of a priceless Civil War diary stolen by the killer. As if two crimes aren't enough, deadly serious collectors, right-wing radicals, and impulsive teenagers make the case even more difficult to tidy up ... and more dangerous.

From her time on the Atlanta police force, Callahan Garrity, house cleaner and private investigator extraordinaire, has excelled at mopping up messes -- of all kinds. But she has no idea what she's getting into when she agrees to work for infamous antiques dealer Elliot Littlefield.

The first day on the job she and her crew discover the bloodied body of a young woman in a bedroom -- and are soon on the trail of a priceless Civil War diary stolen by the killer. As if two crimes aren't enough, deadly serious collectors, right-wing radicals, and impulsive teenagers make the case even more difficult to tidy up ... and more dangerous.

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Due to publisher restrictions the library cannot purchase additional copies of this title, and we apologize if there is a long waiting list. Be sure to check for other copies, because there may be other editions available.

Due to publisher restrictions the library cannot purchase additional copies of this title, and we apologize if there is a long waiting list. Be sure to check for other copies, because there may be other editions available.

Excerpts-

Chapter One

The lump under the sheet stirred, ever so slightly. I poked it with my toe. No response. I poked again. Put my lips up to his ear.

"Give you a hundred dollars if you'll get up and put the coffee on."

The only response was an exaggerated snore.

"A hundred dollars and I'll scratch your back for five minutes."

He pulled the sheet up over his head and turned his back to me.

I sighed. "Okay. A hundred dollars, back scratching, plus... "

Before I could finish the offer he turned and put arms around my neck, lazily running a finger down his bare spine.

I slapped his hand away.

"Forget it, MacAufiffe," I said. "A hundred dollars, back scratching and first dibs on the shower. That's my final offer."

He groaned loudly but sat up, pulling half the covers with him. It was June, but we'd cranked up my air-conditioner the previous night and the room was chilly. I snatched the covers back.

"Deal," he said, then padded, naked, toward the bathroom.

I dozed a few minutes, until the doorbell rang. "Get the door, Mac," I called, but the shower was still running full blast.

"Damn," I muttered, feeling around on the floor far my robe. "Who the hell's here this early in the morning?"

By the time I'd groggily made my way through the hallway to the front door, the bell ringing had been replaced with a persistent knocking. I put one bleary eye to the front door peephole, took a look and tried to shake the cobwebs away.

I looked again, but she was still there. I shot the deadbolt and opened the door a crack, leaving the chain on.

A Southern belle from hell stood on my doorstep. She'd poured her two-hundred-pound-plus self into a long hoop-skirted ball gown made of some kind of white-and-green flowered imitation satin. The sleeves had been pulled down over her shoulders, forcing the double-D bosom forward at a gravity-defying angle. A green velvet sash was wound tight around her waistso tight that her chubby cheeks were stained an unnatural pink. Her head was wrapped turban style in a faded yellow towel. She fluttered a pair of half-inch-long fake eyelashes and smiled coquettishly at me.

I held the door steady. "Edna's still in Swainsboro, at my cousin's wedding, Neva Jean," I said. "What the hell are you doing in that getup at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning?"

She fluttered the eyelashes again. "Come on and let me in, Callahan," she said plaintively. "It's eighty-five degrees out here already. I don' wanna sweat on my ball gown. Edna promised she'd be back in time to comb me out before I head up to Kennesaw for the big battle. She'll probably be here any minute now."

"I've got company, Neva Jean," I said, tightening my grip on the door. "I'll have Edna call you when she gets in. See you later."

Before I could slam the door an arm snaked around in front of me unlatching the chain. "What big battle?" Mac asked. I hadn't heard him come up behind me. He opened the door wide, forcing me to step back into the hallway. "Come on in, Neva Jean," he said expansively. "Coffee's on."

She bunched her skirts up tight to her body and squeezed past, treating Mac to another spasm of eyelash fluttering.

I gave Mac a sour look, but he smiled back innocently. "You never heard of Southern hospitality?" he whispered. He doffed an imaginary hat at the swaying backside of Neva Jean McComb, assistant head House Mouse, dressed up as a trailer-park version of Scarlett O'Hara.

Neva Jean doesn't always show up in costume at the front door to the bungalow Edna and I share in Candler Park. Usually, she and the other girls come in the back door. Generally, they wear white...

About the Author-

Kathy Hogan Trocheck is the author of ten critically acclaimed mysteries, including the Callahan Garrity mystery series. A former reporter for the Atlanta Journal Constitution, she is also the author of Little Bitty Lies and the Edgar®- and Macavity-nominated Savannah Blues, under the name Mary Kay Andrews.

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HarperCollins

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(unknown) KB

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Oct 13, 2009

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9780061842207

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Oct 13, 2009

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956 KB

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9780061842207

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Oct 13, 2009

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